Comfort
by Kitsune The Girl
Summary: John comes home after a hard day. Platonic but can be read as slash. Gift for a dear friend mine.


The sun was just about setting when John arrived home. His breaths came in short, impatient huffs, visible against the familiar hue of the door. He fisted his pockets for the keys. Once, twice, they fell through his numb red fingers. Bending over to pick them up caused a twinge of pain he had not felt in a long time since before moving into Baker Street. Before meeting Sherlock Holmes. Fumbling with the keys and lock, he managed to get the door, closing it behind him. As he stamped the snow of his shoes, gunshots rang out. Swearing, John swooped upstairs. Sure, enough it was Sherlock. Sherlock, still in his choice pajama wear, was lying on the ground, shooting up at the ceiling.

"Sherlock," John asked as calmly as possible. "What are you doing?" Sherlock stopped, resting the gun on his stomach, looking at him.

"Oh, hello John. You're rather late." Sherlock answered, as if there was nothing wrong with the situation. "I was getting bored."

"I couldn't help it. Sorry." John hissed through his teeth. He took the gun away from the sociopath's hands and set it on the coffee table. Heading for his favorite chair to relax in, Sherlock's interrupted that trip.

"Did you get my text?" John wurled around.

"What?" Sherlock sighed.

"Did you get my text, John?" Sherlock asked slower. John swallowed.

"No. I...lost my phone." Sherlock eyed him strangely.

"We're out of bread, butter, clotted cream, jam and milk." Sherlock relayed. John sighed.

"I'll get some tomorrow, Sherlock." John continued his journey to the comfortable cushions.

"Could I get some tea?" Sherlock asked. John stopped, closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head.

"Can't get it yourself?"

"No, I'm doing an experiment on the effects of muscles and long term relaxation without falling asleep." John rolled his eyes and silently went into the kitchen to get Sherlock his bleeding cup of tea. "Camille please." Sherlock called out, with John grumbling.

"Here,"

"Just put it beside my head." Sherlock replied, not bothering to open his eyes.

"You're...not going to drink it..."

"Don't be silly, John. Of course I wasn't." John gave an impatient groan and did as he was told. Finally, being able to sit when Sherlock requested something again.

"Scratch my nose."

"Why?"

"The experiment, John. I can't afford to lose focus." John stamped over and ran his nails over Sherlock long thin nose. "That's enough."

John got up and started to feel very hungry. He remembered the leftovers of a chicken and pasta dinner from Angelos' the other night. Happy to look forward to something positive, John strode over to the fridge. Opening it, he scanned the fridge looking for the promised meal. Instead he found a severed arm in the place where he remembered putting the Styrofoam box.

"Sherlock?" he started, coldly. Sherlock let out a low 'hmmm.' "Where's the dinner I got from Angelos' the other night?"

"I threw it out. There was no room in the fridge for my other experiment. I'm measuring the stiffness of fingers after death." John just stopped. No words, no feeling, no thoughts went through him. He slammed the door shut and stomped over to Sherlock relaxed body on the ground.

"It's not always easy, you know." John said, tensely. Sherlock looked over at John. "It's not always easy babysitting a man who can barely take care of himself! I go to work everyday! I do all the housework, shopping, hell; I clean up after your messes and 'experiments'!

"You only work if it's convenient or interesting and never do a lick of housekeeping!" John started to pace and walk all around the room, not going anywhere in particular. "All you do is sit down and do nothing. And it's all fine! I bust my ass to work at a hospital, struggling to keep my job because I'm always solving crimes with you! I'm tired, Sherlock! Don't you understand that? Or does the world's only consulting detective not understand that?

"Oh, but it's alright! It doesn't matter that I could get fired at any given second! You can just pay for everything because you have all the money you ever need! You can probably even live by yourself, too!" John felt hot tears welling up behind his eyes.

"It doesn't matter what I do! It's doesn't matter that I lose my wallet in the cab I took to work, had no money for solid lunch, get my phone stolen and had to walk all the way home while it snowed. It doesn't matter how hard I try or do! Oh no! Because it doesn't matter what I do. Because I know that I'll never amount to anything! EVER!"

John stopped, his knees gave out and buckled. He landed on the small couch, covering his face with his hands. He sobbed loudly, not caring if Sherlock saw. Everything felt harsh and alone, wrong and hot and cold and cruel. Bringing his feet off the floor and shifting his position to sit along the sofa, he huddled them close to his body. He felt tears roll down his cheeks, snot dripping from his nose, his hands getting hot, wet and snotty. He was pathetic. No matter what he did, how hard he'd try; he'd still be useless, pathetic, injured army doctor to everything and everyone.

John heard a creak of the coffee table and the thunk of a body stepping off it. Long pale feet appeared on either side of John as Sherlock wrapped his thin arms around John. Sherlock's nose buried itself into the sandy blonde hair. He brought himself closer to John and squeezed tighter. John leaned back into the thin frame, not caring how this would look to anyone else. Sherlock's thin frame radiated pleasant, all-encompassing warmth, different from the unbearable hot-cold feeling. It felt safe and secure in Sherlock's surprisingly strong arms. Like the outside world and its problems just vanished and wouldn't dare come back. At least not for a while.

Eventually, John found himself laying between Sherlock's legs, sniffling, grasping at his robe and rubbing his snotty face into Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock stayed still, not saying or doing anything. He watched John with a completely unreadable face. John sighed and sniffed, pressing an ear to Sherlock's chest.

"I didn't mean all that..." John said in a small voice. He could hear Sherlock's heart, keeping a strong steady beat. "I know you're not easy to live with and I'm fine with that...It's just...I just...it was just loads of things at once and I...just sort of snapped...I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. There must have been some truth in what you were saying or else you wouldn't have said it." Sherlock said blankly. He held onto John, solidly. They stayed still, saying nothing for while until Sherlock broke the silence.

"John?" John let out a low 'hmmm.' and looked up. "For the record, I never thought you were useless. Even before the taxi driver case." John smiled softly and sincerely.

"Thank you," he said quietly before yawning.

"Tired?" John nodded into Sherlock's chest.

"Very," he emphasized. Sherlock picked John up and carried him to the doctor's room. John didn't protest to this-just lightly dozed into his bony shoulder. Sherlock gently dropped the doctor into his bed and pulled off his shoes. He pulled the blanket, from the foot of the bed, around John, tucking him in. Sherlock turned off the light and closed the door quietly. Now, his work began.

John woke up, feeling rather strange. His still eyes felt sore. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Feeling groggy, he reached to the lamp on the side table. His hands hit a cardboard box that wasn't there before and familiar worn leather. Turning on the light, he saw his lost wallet, a new and very expensive cell phone still in its box and a short note in Sherlock's graceful handwriting.

"John,

Here's your wallet. I took the liberty to call you out of work today. We have a reservation at Angelos' at two today. I'm cleaning the house now. Enjoy your new phone. Sherlock."

The back of the note had writing on the back that was crossed off. Reading it, John couldn't help but smile at the much longer and rejected letter. A crash and a rare swear rang throughout the flat, interrupting John from the letter. Stepping out of his room, John crept over to the kitchen. Sherlock was hunched over the sink, fully dressed in his purple shirt, sleeves rolled up, wearing an apron and a pair of marigolds. Water was splashed everywhere and broken china littered the floor around the thin man. John leaned against the doorframe, smiling at his best friend, reminding himself never to ask him to clean again for the sake of the dishes.


End file.
